


Unintended

by Desdimonda



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern AU, Solavellan, mtau
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3216701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavellan is a perpetual student, studying history and languages. In the weekend and evenings she works as a bouncer at the local clubs; she is reckless, hedonistic and angry. Spurned by her first love, she descends down a spiral of destructive behaviour. Dorian, her closest friend, worries for her and tries to steer her down a gentler path. He takes her to the book club he attends weekly at an old, beautiful second hand book shop, hosted by the owner, Solas. </p><p>This is a modern Solavellan AU - you guys know the drill by now. ;) Oh and it's happy, very happy. This is what we all need after, well, we all know what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Company of Wolves

Saga leaned against the window, breath fogging the grubby glass of the coffee shop, idly stirring the black coffee in front of her that was steadily growing stale. Dorian was still talking. About what, she had no clue. Her other hand was propping up her head; heavy, sore and tired. Each word felt like a pat pat against her brain, each wail of the coffee machine like the bite of a blade. Just one after work, she said; she always said. That one had turned into many, and many had turned into her stumbling in at eight this morning, shoes in hand, her work jacket slung over one shoulder. The taste of last night’s shame still lingered on her tongue. Was it Ashe? No. She was Thursday. Saga furrowed her brow, pressing on her phone. _Shit._ Last night _was_ Thursday.

‘Saga,’ said Dorian, loudly, touching her arm.

‘What? Yeah whatever. I don’t mind,’ she rounded off, hopeful it was enough to answer whatever it was he said.

‘You need to sort yourself out, Saga. Look at the state of you. It’s seven in the evening and you’re only just up. And finish your coffee. You need it.’

Saga heaved a weary sigh and sat upright, glaring at Dorian over her coffee as she took a few large gulps.

‘Glare all you like. You’re a wreck.’

‘Jeez, alright mum,’ said Saga as she set down her bitter coffee; she had forgot the sugar, of course. ‘Why have you dragged me out to this pisshole anyway?’

‘Costa isn’t that bad of a pisshole. Probably far better than the one, two, four you had last night?’ said Dorian with a little smirk.

‘Just the one, thanks,’ said Saga, giving him the finger as she drank the rest of her black coffee.

‘As you have probably forgotten, I mentioned about a local book club that I frequent; I think you’d like it. There’s beer. And cake,’ he said, drinking the last of his latte.

‘Does it look like I want beer?’ said Saga, running a hand through her loosely braided hair.

‘Usually, you do. I’ll excuse you today. He does serve coffee too. And frankly I’m glad, because you need more.’

‘Wait - you wanna go tonight?’ she asked, sitting up straight.

‘Oh sweet Saga. Of course I do. It is why I brought you out. Do keep up,’ said Dorian as he rose from his seat. The clatter of wood on stone made Saga wince. ‘And here.’

Saga picked up the pack of painkillers Dorian handed her and necked two, cringing at the chalky taste of the pills against her tongue.

‘Hurry up, it’s starting soon,’ urged Dorian as he slung on his satchel and slipped on his leather gloves.

With an exaggerated groan, she re-tied her scarf and dragged her aching, tired body after Dorian.

‘I haven’t even read whatever it is you’re all gonna be talking about.’

‘The book is always secondary - it’s basically just an excuse for us to eat, drink and talk about life.’ Dorian hooked her arm with his as she shivered against his side, the bitter winter air whipping through her hair, biting at her tired skin.

‘Fucking hippies,’ muttered Saga against her scarf.

‘Says the perpetual humanities student. At least I study the sciences,’ he teased.

‘You’re an astrophysicist. That’s basically a science hippy.’

Dorian laughed, nudging her with his elbow. ‘Feeling any better?’

‘No.’

‘Saga-’

‘Don’t,’ she interrupted, feeling the pity lace his words. She knew what was coming. ‘I’m fine. Ring Ashe, Lacey, whatever her name was and ask. Her number’s probably on my tit or something.’

‘This. This is exactly why I’m worried. You’re going from one train wreck to another,’ said Dorian, holding up his hand, halting her meagre protest. ‘Instead of pissing away your life, you’re coming here with me, every Friday night instead.’

‘I still have six other nights to piss away.’

‘One less might help,’ said Dorian, adjusting his scarf as they turned a corner. ‘And to top it off, the bookshop itself is lovely.’

‘It’s second hand isn’t it?’ she asked with a smile; he knew her too well.

‘Of course.’

They stopped by the shop, tucked in a corner down by a narrow street of the old part of town. Cobbled stones, unkind to unsteady feet surrounded them. The streets were lined with trees; naked from the grip of winter. A few iron cast lamps guided their walk, casting an orange hue on the ground in a fuzzy halo.

‘How have I never been here before?’ asked Saga, eyes wandering across the shop front, littered with a swathe of candles. Some tall, some short; countless tea lights were scattered around the shop, accompanied by a few dim lamps. She smiled. It was quaint, comfortable, and she felt a quiver of trepidation wash away the gloom of her hangover.

‘Come on then,’ urged Dorian, holding open the door for her; the faint clatter of a bell greeted her steps as she walked in.

Saga paused and took in a deep breath, noticing the heady linger of incense all around her, and not to forget the musty, comforting smell of old books; it was delectable. A mix of vanilla, some jasmine and was that cinnamon? A small group of people sat in the centre; some stretched across beanbags, others lazing against a pile of cushions. Some ate slices of cake; chocolate, lemon, red velvet. Others drank beer and coffee. All of them looked happy, she thought. Smiling, laughing, some with books open at their feet, others with nothing, simply kicking off their shoes. Some were old, some young. She was sure she recognised some of her fellow students, and even lecturers.

One of them stood and walked towards them; he stood tall, feet bare, with a lazy half smile. Saga stared; she could not look away. It was his walk; one, two, rhythmic, languid. His hips swayed in motion with each bare step. He wore a tight, fleece turtle neck, showing the broad curve of his shoulders. Her lips parted.

‘Evening,’ he said, arm outstretched.

She continued to stare, wordless, lost in his eyes. They were small, a stormy grey, speckled with blue. She tried to read them, to read him, but there was little he gave away. Stoic, steady, with just the grace of a smile. A story, a thousand words lay behind those eyes, but she could not understand a word. Aware she had been standing silent, immobile, she hastily reached out her small, cold hand and shook his.

 _Gods, he was warm_ , she thought with a smile she thought was hidden. But it was not; he matched it as they shook. The corner of his eyes turned up, narrowing his already small eyes.

‘Solas,’ he said, letting go of her hand. She almost stopped him.

‘You’ll excuse her, Solas, she’s not long up. And quite horribly hungover,’ said Dorian with a laugh.

Saga elbowed him, clearing her throat. ‘Saga. And I got up at least an hour ago. I mean-’

Solas laughed, kindly, and motioned for them to follow. ‘Get comfortable. Tonight’s book is _‘The Bloody Chamber’_ by-’

‘Angela Carter,’ interrupted Saga with an excited smile.

‘I see you are familiar with it. Good. It is a favourite of mine,’ he said as they followed him to the circle. A few of their company freed a nest of cushions for them both; Dorian exchanging pleasant smiles and greetings with the regulars. Saga, too hungover and tired to care with pleasantries, nestled herself next to Dorian. She barely saw the faces of those around her as the gentle lull of silence that occurred when a new, unfamiliar face joined, descended. All she saw was him.

He moved with languid purpose; not a movement wasted. Careful hands passed around refills; steady, smooth. His smile was small, just enough, nothing more. Eyes surveyed the group, one by one, making sure all were at ease. Step by step, his hips swayed. It was rhythmic enough to almost send her back to the lull of sleep. Even with his legs draped in beige, worn khakis, she couldn’t look away. He walked towards her, and she quickly looked away, toying with the threads of her scarf, still bound tight. Solas knelt down at her side, a warm, fragrant cup of tea in his hands.

‘Here. I greatly dislike tea, but it helps with ones hangover,’ he said, passing it to her, ‘so I am told, of course.’ He ended his words with a lopsided smile.

Saga tried to speak, however nothing but a little noise, akin to thank you, passed her lips. She drew in a long, deep breath, the sweet smell of orange and chamomile met her senses; their gaze met, just for a second longer than was normal, then he stood, left and took his seat in the circle.

‘Smooth,’ muttered Dorian.

‘Shut it, princess,’ said Saga before taking a first, very welcome, sip of the tea.

‘No, I was actually commenting on him,’ he said with a laugh, setting an arm around her waist as she leant into his shoulder, resting her pounding head.

‘Whatever.’ But she couldn’t hide her happy smile.

A hush descended throughout the group as Solas crossed his legs and leaned forward, mug of coffee between his hands.

‘Thank you for all coming,’ he said, catching Saga’s eye. She hid her smile behind the cup of tea. ‘And I’d just like to say welcome to a new face; Saga.’

She gave a meagre wave, her face still half hidden by the warm cup of tea.

He continued to talk in his deep, welsh drawl, his hands clasped neatly before him, resting on the bare skin of his ankle. She watched the way the tip of his nose moved a little with each stress of his words; the way his ears, elongated, almost to a point, twitched with his smile and moved with his laugh. The tea had begun to work; the dull ache that clung to her head had lessened, and she listened, watched, laughed and smiled with everyone else. She kept quiet, happy to listen, happy to watch. Until Solas picked up the book and caught her eye as he spoke.

‘Does anyone wish to share their thoughts on ‘The Bloody Chamber? A favourite passage; a favourite tale?’

‘I do,’ said Saga, setting down her empty cup at her shoeless feet.

‘Oh?’ he asked, catching her gaze.

‘The Company of Wolves is my favourite,’ began Saga, shifting idly, crossing her legs as she spoke. ‘To me, the girl is a powerful female role model; she still holds her grace of innocence, while knowing that she can use her sexuality as a weapon; it is her _power_. She walks the woods without fear, but with purpose. She takes the hunter on his deal, letting him think she is just a meagre girl in the forest, alone. Little does he know that this is when she takes the first steps of her seduction.’

A little smile graced Solas’s lips, but it was fleeting.

‘Unlike Little Red Riding Hood, when the girl reaches the cabin where the grandmother is meant to be, gone are the preconceptions she learned as a child to run at the scent of danger; to seek those stronger and more powerful. Because this girl knows that she is powerful. She holds a weapon far deadlier than most others; her sexuality.’

His smile stayed this time; big, bright, the corners of his eyes tilting in echo of his lips.

‘Gone are the preconceptions of a damsel in distress, gone are the traditional views that little girls are weak. Carter puts this girl in charge; the power has shifted away from the big bad wolf. The power is _hers_.’

‘You see a story where the beast becomes tamed? Where the wolf submits to the sheep?’ he asked, fingers, restless, toying with the edge of his sleeve was the only thing that gave her a glimpse to what stirred beneath; that, and his eyes.

‘I do,’ she said simply, tilting her head to the side, letting her white waves cascade across her shoulder. ‘The girl took her power of seduction, without fear, without shame, and subdued the beast, granting her safety and getting exactly what she wanted; a kiss.’

‘It shows the strength of female empowerment,’ he said softly, his deep bass delectable. ‘The strength that girls, that women have to cast aside the fear and shame that lingers around their sexuality and bodies.’

Saga smiled, slowly readjusting her legs, crossing one over the other; she didn’t let him look away, not for a breath, not for anything. _‘See! sweet and sound she sleeps in granny’s bed, between the paws of the tender wolf.’_

They stayed still, wordless, his fingers the only tell-tale, her eyes, hers. A few murmurs passed the lips of their company, nods of agreement accompanying their words. At last, he looked away.

‘Does…does anyone else have any thoughts on the tales?’ he said, faltering on his first word.

As the group began to talk again, a man answering Solas’s question with a discussion about ‘The Tiger’s Bride’, Saga leaned in close to Dorian’s ear, her ruby lips curved into a satisfied, tempting smile.

‘Now who’s smooth,’ she whispered, unable to suppress the laugh that passed her lips.

Solas caught her in the corner of her eye; she bit her lip.

‘I was not expecting this,’ said Dorian quietly, side-eyeing Solas. ‘He’s old, bald, dresses like an unwashed hobo and wears a jaw bone as a necklace.’

‘Whatever happens now, I’m blaming you,’ she said, taking a bottle of beer that her neighbour offered, with a gentle thanks.

‘I wash my hands,’ he said, emphasizing his words with a gesture.

Saga laughed, setting the neck of the bottle against her rosy lips; watching, listening. She stared at the necklace; a jaw bone, bound with straps of leather. It took her a while, another monologue from a woman on the imagery of female oppression to realise that it was, in-fact, the jaw bone of a wolf.

She smiled.


	2. Hooked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saga returns home after the book club meeting and talks with her flatmate, Peran Trevelyan. Dorian and Solas talk about their impending dates - not with each other, of course.

‘You’re home late - or early. I can’t tell anymore,’ said Peran from the sofa, scrubbing his work boots. A muffled, black and white program was on the television; war, of course.

‘Whatever, dick,’ called Saga, dropping her bag in the hallway and kicking off her converse. ‘You’re having an exciting evening, I see,’ she said while draping herself on the sofa next to him, kicking away his boots to make room for her feet. She nestled them comfortably in his lap.

‘Can I help you?’ he said, picking up his boots with a sigh.

‘Actually, yeah. Tea would be lovely. And what’s this shit on the tv,’ she said through a languid stretch. The tips of her hair touched the floor.

‘That shit is the Spanish Civil war of 1936-1939,’ said Peran, pushing off her feet.

‘Oh wow. I’m bored already,’ she said, shifting with a disgruntled noise. She pulled her feet underneath her and rested her head on Peran’s shoulder. She smiled at his weary sigh.

‘Not working tonight?’ he asked, continuing to clean his boots.

‘No. Staying in, too. Pretty tired.’ Saga yawned on her last word.

‘Where were you anyway?’

‘At some book club. You know that old bookshop by the old brewery?’ she asked, slyly taking the remote from his side.

‘Vaguely,’ he lied.

‘Dorian said he’s worried about me so decided to turn my every Friday night to a book club instead,’ she said, wearily, changing the channel to Fox.

‘Rude,’ he said, snatching back the remote and flicking back to the black and white civil war documentary. ‘And who’s Dorian?’

At that, she smiled and sat up. He glanced to his side, curious at the look on her face. ‘Why are you smiling like that?’

Saga laughed. ‘You free tomorrow night?’

Peran paused, setting down the boots in his hand. ‘Why? What have you done?’

‘Why am I even asking? Of course you’re free. You do fuck all,’ she said, taking out her phone. She tapped at the screen, never letting her smile drop. ‘There. You’re going on a date tomorrow with said Dorian.’

‘Excuse me?’ he said, setting down his boots on the carpet, perfectly aligned. ‘Don’t I get a say in this?’

‘Not really, no. Dorian did a kind thing for me, so I’m doing a kind thing in return,’ she said, setting her phone at her side. ‘He’s an astrophysicist. Bit of a tit, but I love him.’

‘I hate you, Saga,’ he said, lounging back against the sofa and setting the remote away from Saga.

‘You love me. Everyone loves me,’ she laughed, leaning against his shoulder once more.

‘So, how’d the book club go?’ he asked, letting the girl get comfortable at his side.

Saga paused, muting her words as she watched the television with blank eyes. She smiled against his arm, trying to stifle a laugh. She wasn’t quite sure why thinking of him made her laugh. He had watched her with inquisitive eyes, with a gaze that she wasn’t used to. He was something she wasn’t used to. Her life was filled with youth, with disaster, with hedonistic pleasure and anger. Oh, and this gay nerd at her side too, she supposed.

‘Well, it clearly went well enough to shut you up,’ said Peran, nudging Saga from her stupor.

‘Oh what? Oh sorry,’ she said, stretching her toes to a point. ‘It was good. We talked about ‘The Bloody Chamber’ and drank ale and ate cake.’

‘I’m gonna pretend I know what that book is and smile. Bet you enjoyed the ale and cake,’ he said, resting his arm on the back of the sofa, pushing her messy white hair from her neck.

‘Yeah. It was good. The guy who hosts is… nice.’

‘Nice?’ he asked with a raised brow.

Saga picked at her fingers, biting at the sides of her nails. She took a chunk of skin of one side, feeling the tang of blood. She swore, sucking her finger. ‘Yeah. Nice. He’s quite unlike anyone else I’ve met… or well, from what I could gather from the few hours we were there.’

Peran took out a crumpled tissue from his jeans and wrapped it around Saga’s bleeding finger.

‘Rank,’ she said, pulling back her hand. The tissue stayed wrapped around her finger. ‘Is that even clean?’

‘You do that when you’re nervous. He makes you nervous, and quiet. He must be quite something,’ said Peran with a smile. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Solas. Means pride,’ she said, staring at the tv. ‘You know how much I love books and book shops. I’m blaming the setting.’

‘Yeah. Sure. So, tea?’

Saga nodded and as Per stood to walk towards the kitchen, she draped her body out across the sofa, sighing in content as she stretched. She closed her eyes, remembering the first time she saw him; barefooted, languid, with methodical steps; one and two, with the sway of his hips. That wasn’t even her favourite part; his voice. Gods, his voice, she thought. Saga rubbed her eyes, swearing loud enough just for her, disgusted at her own giddiness, at her own fawning over another. Saga did not fawn, she did not laugh like a simpering maiden, thinking, longing for his touch…. fingers sliding along her leg, nails hooking the thick flesh of her thighs, followed by a kiss, a kiss with those lips, and he whispered her name, with that delectable voice.

‘Is that tea ready yet?’ she called, throwing a pillow across the room

‘A blind date. What is this- the 90s?’ said Dorian as he leant against the counter, arms crossed across his blazier.

Solas chuckled, pulling his leg under the other, leaning lazily against his chair. He tapped at the keyboard, glancing to the door as a customer walked in; he gave a small smile. ‘It could be fun,’ he said, idly. ‘Meeting eyes with a stranger, across a crowded room, unsure of who he is.’

‘You go, then. And we’re not in a Jane Austen novel, thank you.’ said Dorian, tapping his manicured nails on his arm, heaving another sigh.

‘He could be your Mr Darcy,’ said Solas, resting his head on his hand.

‘Oh, please. I’m not a fifteen year old girl.’

‘I’m unsure, sometimes,’ said Solas, taking two books from a customer and ringing them through the till.

Dorian seethed quietly, keeping his words hidden as Solas served his customer. He saw the little curve of a smile Solas gave. ‘Speaking of dates - you should ask out Saga. I think she likes you,’ he said, fiddling with his scarf. He re-tied it, making sure the edges met neatly.

‘She does,’ he said, leaning back against his chair again, languid; at ease. He clasped his hands in his lap, pointing two fingers to a peak.

‘I suppose with age, comes wisdom too,’ he said with a raised brow. ‘Is the feeling mutual?’

Solas stayed quiet for a moment, watching the blink, blink of the cursor on his screen. He didn’t move, but stayed still, quiet, unwilling to let what he felt beneath, show above; as always. It was a well practiced scenario; perfected with age. All that gave him away was the irritable fumble of his hands and if one looked close enough, his eyes.

‘I’ll take that silence as a yes,’ said Dorian, pushing himself off the counter. He began to pace, elbow in hand.

‘She… is unique. She exudes a presence that I have not felt, nor seen, in a long time. You could say I was intrigued,’ he said, casually. His fingers tapped on the table, idly pushing around a fountain pen. A bead of ink fell from the tip, staining the wood.

‘Intrigued? Is that old man speak for ‘yes, I fancy her too’?’ asked Dorian, his fingers speaking in echo to his words as he paced. ‘Oh gods, what if he’s old, like you?’

Solas chuckled, pulling at the frayed end of his sleeve. ‘I am sure she hasn’t picked you someone like me, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

Dorian paused, glancing out the window to a dark and dreary day. The clouds hung low and grey. A dull, drawn out patter of rain had spotted the streets through the day, threatening to open up to a heavy downpour as it got later. ‘Wonderful. And it’s going to rain tonight too. Way to ruin a man’s entrance.’

‘Say I did ask out Saga,’ said Solas, slowly.

‘I’m listening,’ said Dorian, still staring out the window, his fingers fiddling with the twirl of his moustache.

‘Where would she like to go?’ he said after a long pause. His fingers sprawled across the cover of ‘The Bloody Chamber’, remembering the way her eyes had shone as she spoke about literature, about Carter’s use of language. She spoke with a fire, with a fury he had long forgotten existed anymore. Hands echoed her words, painting them in the air. Her ruby red lips parted elegantly, just enough to let her melodic words slip past, note by note. She had ended her monologue with a smile; just enough, nothing more. The hook was dropped, and he had caught it, without thought. It sank in, unforgiving, unrelenting. But he hadn’t resisted; he didn’t want to.

‘Solas,’ interrupted Dorian, ‘are you listening?’

‘I’ve just thought of where I could take her,’ he said with a satisfied smile, pushing aside the book, marked with the pads of his fingers. ‘Assuming shes says yes, of course.’

Dorian smirked, picking up his leather satchel, crossing it over his body. ‘Shall I pass on the message?’

Solas shook his head. ‘I may be old, but I haven’t forgotten how to woo a lady.’

Dorian snorted a laugh. ‘Clearly.’


End file.
